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The  Hand  of  the  Potter 

A  Tragedy  in  Four  Acts 

by 

THEODORE  DREISER 


History  of  the  Play 


Written  in  the  fall  of  1916.  Ac 
cepted  for  production  by  Arthur 
Hopkins,  New  York,  Dec.,  1916. 
Production  scheme  delayed  and 
finally  abandoned  April,  1917. 
Rejected  for  publication  in  book 
form  by  the  John  Lane  Publish 
ing  Company — the  author's  pub 
lishers  at  that  time — April,  1917. 
Reason,  "too  grim."  The  author 
severs  his  connections  with  that 
company.  Accepted  for  publica 
tion  in  book  form  by  Boni  &  Live- 
right,  New  York,  May,  1917, 
Book  publication  delayed  to  ac 
commodate  managers.  Accepted 
for  production  as  a  play  by  the 
Coburns,  August,  1918.  Book 
production  delayed  to  accommo 
date  the  Coburns.  Production  by 
the  Coburns  abandoned  December, 
1918.  Finally  issued  in  book  form 
by  Boni  &  Liveright  (New  York), 
April,  1919. 


BONI  &  LIVERIGHT,  PUBLISHER 

105  WEST  40TH  STREET 

NEW  YORK  CITY 


M748807 


t 


. 
The  Hand  of  the  Potter 


Reviewed  by  George  Jean  Nathan  in  the  Smart  Set. 

It  is  called  "The  Hand  of  the  Potter"  Announced  for  production  by  the 
Coburns,  it  remains  still  between  book  covers.  Arthur  Hopkins  has  said  that 
it  is  the  best  American  play  that  has  been  submitted  to  him  and  that  he  would 
eagerly  have  produced  it  had  not  Dreiser  imposed  upon  him  so  many  bulls, 
caveats  and  salvos.  Mencken,  Dreiser's  most  faithful  critical  mount,  private 
shimmy  dancer  and  rajpoot  at  large,  says  that  Hopkins  is  crazy  and  that  it  is 
one  of  the  worst  American  plays  he  has  read.  Burton  Rascoe,  Chicago's  lead 
ing  journalistic  professor  of  the  arts,  informs  me  that  it  has  made  a  considera 
ble  impression  upon  him;  Tarquinius  Ramgunga  Smith,  erudite  sposo  to  the 
Century,  has  said  the  same;  the  theatrical  producers,  aside  from  Hopkins,  to 
whom  the  manuscript  was  submitted  have  observed  that  it  is,  in  their  estima 
tion,  largely  whim-wham.  It  has  given  birth  to  boisterous  palms  pounders,  tin- 
sheet  shakers  and  shillabers  on  the  right  hand,  and  to  nose  wrinklers,  tongue 
stickers  and  loud  sneezers  on  the  left.  I  find  myself  occupying  a  position  in 


no-man's  land  stretching  between  the  two 
camps — but  rather  far  to  the  left. 

The  story  of  a  victim  of  a  certain  phase 
of  Kraft-Ebbing  demoralization — one  has 
a  sneaking  suspicion  that  the  late  Leo 
Frank  case  may  in  a  general  way  have 
suggested  the  theme  to  the  author — Dreiser 
has  written  a  play  whose  chief  merit  (as 
it  is  ever  one  of  Dreiser's  most  notable 
assets)  consists  in  the  achievement,  in  the 
very  teeth  of  life's  low  derisory  comedy, 
of  a  poignant  and  tragic  pity.  This  deep 
compassion,  this  summoning  forth,  honest 
ly  and  soundly,  of  forbearance,  this  is  the 
note  Dreiser  can  strike  as  few  other  Amer 
icans  can  strike  it.  Out  of  the  tin  of  the 
grotesque,  the  ignoble  and  the  mean,  he 
can  evoke  the  golden  E  flat  of  human 
frailty  and  charity  as  few  modern  Euro 
peans  can  .evoke  it.  And  yet  with  never  a 
suspicion  of  the  bogus  "heart  interest"  that 
passes  promiscuously  for  the  currency  of 
art,  with  never  a  suspicion  of  slyly  studied 
fact  blue-penciling  or  of  self-compromise. 
From  "Sister  Carrie"  down  through  "Jen 
nie  Gerhardt"  and,  with  but  a  few  skips, 
on  to  "Twelve  Men,"  one  encounters  al 
ways  this  grim  and  understanding  heart 
upon  a  hilltop,  at  once  moved  and  im 
mobile,  at  once  condemning  and  forgiving: 
without  sentimentality  as  without  imper- 


turbation.  You  will  find  it,  perhaps  at  its 
most  eloquent,  in  his  chapter,  "My  Brother 
Paul" — "And  you,  my  good  brother! 
Here  is  the  story  that  you  wanted  me  to 
write,  this  little  testimony  to  your  mem 
ory,  a  pale,  pale  symbol  of  all  I  think  and 
feel" — a  really  first-rate,  immensely  real 
istic  and  effecting  arrangement  of  the  jig 
saw  of  the  eternal  marriage  of  the  ridi 
culous  and  the  gentle.  And  though  the 
amalgam  of  heart  and  eye,  the  one  warm 
and  the  other  cold,  dresses  his  play  not 
so  convincingly,  it  is  yet  there  to  breathe 
into  the  work  a  something*  that  hi  its  ab 
sence  would  have  left  the  play  a  mere  third- 
rate  Third  Avenue  melodramatic  mossback 
diddler  not  much  above  the  quality  of 
such  dime  magnets  of  yesterday  as  "Dev 
il's  Island." 

The  dramatist  Dreiser  is  the  precocious 
bad  boy  of  the  novelist  Dreiser:  that  off 
spring  of  the  artist  who  looks  upon  the 
stage  as  a  neighbour's  apple  orchard 
wherein  to  penetrate  by  night  enveloped 
in  a  bed-spread,  scare  off  with  sepulchral 
groans  the  watchful  Spitz,  and  make  away 
with  the  pippins.  The  bed-spread  and  the 
groans  are  apparent  (Dreiser  has  doubtless 
grown  tired  of  waiting  and  wishes  to 
"knock  'em  off  their  seats"  now  or  never) 
in  this,  his  first  long  play.  The  girl 


stretched  out  in  the  coffin,  the  fourth  di 
mensional  dramaturgy  with  its  divers  laugh 
ing  gases,  the  violent  sensationalism  of  the 
defloration  of  eleven  year  old  Kitty  Neafie 
by  the  degenerate  Berchansky — this  is  the 
crescendo  Dreiser  box-office  attack;  the 
last  in  particular  the  do-or-die  dive  against 
the  Rialto  show  pews.  And  what  is  more, 
if  the  Coburns  put  on  the  play  down  in 
the  Greenwich  Village  Theater — away  from 
Broadway — I  somehow  feel  that  its  scan 
dalous  air  will  presently  draw  to  it  enough 
of  jay  Broadway  to  make  Dreiser  the 
money  upon  which  he  had  his  eye  when 
he  wrote  it.  For  that  Dreiser  wrote  the 
play  with  a  Rolls-Royce  in  view  seems  to 
me  as  certain  as  that  he  writes  his  novels 
with  nothing  in  view  but  the  novels. 

"The  Hand  of  the  Potter"  has  three  ex 
tremely  effective  theatrical  scenes :  the 
attack  scene  at  the  conclusion  of  the  first 
act  (in  effect  similar  to  the  scene  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  first  act  of  a  prize  play 
of  twenty  years  ago  called  "Chivalry") ; 
the  scene  in  the  second  act  wherein  the 
suspicions  and  fears  of  the  mother  and 
father  of  the  demented  boy  tremble  upon 
their  lips;  and  the  scene  wherein  the 
crazed,  pursued  pervert  closes  the  door 
against  the  child  Hagar  and  demoniac 
temptation.  I  am  probably  unfair  to  Dei- 
ser  when  I  bluntly  characterize  these  scenes 
as  mere  stage  melodrama:  there  is  some 
thing  more  to  them  than  merely  that.  But 
that  they  were  initially  conceived  less  for 
their  intrinsic  relevance  and  integrity  than 
for  their  more  obvious  yokel-power,  I 
somehow  can't  disbelieve,  for  all  the  well- 
known  stubborn  and  eccentric  hand  that 
executed  them,  must  have  taken  on  at  least 
a  show  of  the  reticence  that  is  currently 
nowhere  visible. 

The  balance  of  the  manuscript  reveals 
here  and  there  a  touch  or  two  of  mod 
erately  good  characterization,  but  little 


more.  The  structure  of  the  play  is  dis 
jointed  and  awkward.  The  third  act, 
jumping  a  la  Hal  Reid  from  the  Berchan 
sky  flat  to  the  grand  jury  room  of  the 
Criminal  Courts  Building,  invades  the  con 
tinuity  of  the  action:  the  third  act  might 
better  have  followed  up  the  action  of  the 
preceding  act  after  a  slight  lapse  of  time, 
in  the  locale  of  that  act.  The  long  mon 
ologues  of  the  insane  boy,  though  logical 
and  sound  enough,  are  repetitious  and  tire 
some.  The  German  dialect  of  such  a 
straight  character  as  Emil  Daubenspeck — 
"ich  vuss  by  a  liddle  chob  in  Sixty-fift' 
Sthreet  und  vuss  going  down  troo  der 
lot  by  Fairst  Affenoo  back  of  mein  house 
da" — smacks  rebelliously  of  Sam  Bernard, 
as  the  "I  can't  give  you  her  exack  lang- 
widge  .  .  .  she  was  kinda  nervous  an' 
a-fidgitin'  with  'her  hands  this-a-way"  of 
such  a  straight  character  as  Rufus  Bush 
smacks  of  William  Hodge  and  as  the  Irish 
McKagg's  "divil  a  bits"  and  "sure,  ye'll 
be  afther  sayin's"  suggest  the  Russell 
Brothers  and  the  Yiddish  Berchansky's  "oi, 
oi's,"  "ach's"  and  sedulous  use  of  the  "v" 
sound  suggest  Ben  Welch. 

The  play,  in  brief,  though  probably  a 
financial  success  if  handled  with  a  suffi 
ciently  cunning  showmanship,  falls  short 
on  a  score  of  counts.  It  has  a  touch  of 
the  great  and  gorgeous  pity;  it  has  twenty 
touches  of  the  great  and  gorgeous  whang- 
doodle.  It  belongs  very  largely  to  the 
Dreiser  who  writes  for  the  Saturday  Even 
ing  Post  and  goes  to  see  Henry  B.  Walt- 
hall  hi  the  moving  pictures;  it  is  not  the 
work  of  the  Theodore  Dreiser  who  has 
written  some  of  America's  finest  novels. 
That  Dreiser  could  never  seriously  have 
written  such  an  idiotic  scene,  for  example, 
as  that  of  the  newspaper  reporters'  colloquy 
in  the  last  act:  not  unless  he  appreciated 
the  idiocy  of  a  Broadway  theatrical  aud 
ience  as  well  as  I. 


Reviewed  by  Ludwig  Lewisohn  in  The  Nation. 

The  proper  character  of  the  tragic  hero  has  long  been  a  fruitful  subject  of 
critical  controversy.  One  recalls  the  old  formula  of  the  schools:  he  must  not 
be  ignoble,  he  must  not  be  guiltless,  he  must  occupy  a  reasonably  important 
station  in  human  society.  In  brief,  he  must  be  CEdipus,  Macbeth,  Wallen- 
stein.  Let  us  look  at  Mr.  Dreiser's  protagonist.  Isador  Berchansky  is  the 
son  of  a  Jewish  peddler  of  thread  and  needles.  He  was  born  in  an  East  Side 
slum.  There  were  ten  children.  Four  are  dead.  Of  the  six  who  survive  four 
are  normally  energetic  and  decent  people.  But  poor  little  Masha  (who  has 


the  most  sensitive  soul)  is  a  cripple,  and  Isadore  a  psychopathic  degenerate. 
Twice,  then,  the  hand  of  the  Potter  shook.  From  the  point  of  view  of  the 
police  records  Isadore  is  a  loathsome  criminal.  But  in  Mr.  Dreiser's  portrayal 
of  him  his  struggle  against  his  ghastly  infirmity  is  not  wholly  ignoble;  his 
guilt  is  merged  into  social  and,  in  the  last  analysis,  into  cosmic  forces;  his 
importance  is  in  his  character  as  representative  of  the  tragic  consequence  of 

ignorance,  poverty,  and  oppression.  He  is 
not  ignoble,  he  is  not  guiltless;  he  is  im 
portant.  To  realize  thoroughly  the  new 
meanings  that  here  attach  to  the  old  form 
of  words  is  to  have  grasped  the  funda 
mental  change  in  thinking  about  human 
life  which  is  the  very  soul  of  the  age  in 
which  we  live,  an  age  in  which  so  many 
new  things  are  still  known  by  old  words 
and  consequently  hardly  known  at  all.  For 
it  is  not  only  the  political  map  of  the 
world  that  we  must  study  anew.  Ethical 
frontiers  are  also  subtly  shifting  before  our 
eyes. 

Mr.  Dreiser's  dramaturgic  structure  is  a 
little  clumsy,  a  little  awkward  and  help 
less.  The  fourth  act  is  plainly  unneces 
sary.  But  in  the  three  preceding  acts  there 
is  such  characterization  and  such  a  projec 
tion  of  the  interplay  of  character  through 
dialogue  as  we  shall  seek  in  vain  in  any 
other  American  play.  The  delineation  of 


the  Berchansky  family  is  not  less  than 
masterly.  The  brothers  and  sisters  could 
have  been  but  of  one  blood;  they  could 
have  been  the  children  of  no  one  but  these 
parents;  yet  each  is,  in  addition,  a  definite 
and  peculiar  personality.  Best  of  all  is 
the  father,  Aaron  Berchansky.  Mr,  Drei 
ser,  as  he  showed  in  the  character  of  old 
Gerhardt,  has  always  had  a  deep  sense  of 
the  pathos  of  old  age,  of  a  genuine  if  rigid 
righteousness  that  has  lost  the  battle  and 
is  stricken  at  the  evidence  that  righteous 
ness  alone  avails  so  little  against  the  vast 
forces  of  the  world.  Berchansky,  assuredly, 
has  a  tragic  quality  and  appeal  that  belong 
to  no  age.  He  has  them  when  he  turns 
to  the  District  Attorney:  "If  I  had  been 
a  better  fader  maybe  dis  would  not  hap 
pen;"  he  has  them,  above  all,  when  he 
silences  the  nagging  landlord  in  words  as 
characteristic  as  they  are  beautiful:  "Vy 
pull  at  de  vails  of  my  house?  Dey  are 
already  down!" 


Reviewed  by  Constance  Black  in  the  Baltimore  Sun. 

In  his  grimly  tragic  play  entitled  "The  Hand  of  the  Potter"  (Boni  &  Live- 
right)  Theodore  Dreiser  has  taken  the  sort  of  theme  which  the  newspapers 
of  any  great  city  furnish  every  day.  But  he  has  dealt  with  it  in  such  mas 
terly  fashion  as  to  produce  a  tragedy  which  is  singularly  moving  and  affect 
ing — a  tragedy  of  the  righteous  forsaken.  A  degenerate  boy  has  assaulted  a 
little  girl  and  been  sent  to  prison.  Upon  release  he  assaults  and  kills  another 
little  girl,  then  flees  and  hides  and,  eventually,  commits  suicide.  He  is  de 
picted  as  a  congenial  defective,  incapable  of  mastering  his  impulses,  yet  with 
many  qualities  of  kindliness  and  with  desire  to  do  the  right  thing.  His 
father  and  mother  and  sisters  are  the  chief  characters  and  are  masterly 


depicted.  The  old  father,  particularly,  one 
cannot  soon  forget.  He  has  tried  so  hard 
to  do  his  best.  He  has  sought  to  bring 
his  children  up  as  they  should  be  brought 
up,  but  poverty  and  Neyv  York  streets  have 
proved  too  much  for  him.  His  efforts  are 
unavailing  and  the  walls  of  his  house  top 
ple  down  upon  him.  Mr.  Dreiser  spoils  the 
effect  of  his  play  somewhat  by  the  too- 


lengthy  dialogue  between  the  newspaper 
reporters  in  his  last  act — an  act  not  really 
necessary  in  any  case.  But  this  play  is 
certainly  the  sort  of  thing  American  lit 
erature  needs  as  a  reaction  against  the  Pol- 
lyanna  school  of  art.  A  homely  tragedy. 
The  sort  of  thing  which  happens  every  day, 
yet  given  an  eternal  value  by  being  dealt 
with  grimly  and  vitally.  One  may  feel 


that  the  life  of  the  average  man  is  too  may  feel  that  Mr.  Dreiser  sees  life  some- 
short  for  him  to  give  his  time  to  concern  what  lopsidedly.  But  all  art  and  all  art- 
with  one  tragic  experience  out  of  all  the  ists  down  the  ages  have  been  open  to  such 
millions  of  tragic  experiences  which  every  criticism.  "The  Hand  of  the  Potter"  is  lit- 
day  brings  to  the  sons  of  men.  And  one  erature.  And  we  need  literature. 

Reviewed  by  C.  A.  in  the  Washington  Star. 

Theodore  Dreiser  here  makes  use  of  a  four-act  play  to  crystallize  the  trag 
edy  of  a  pervert.  An  east-side  Jewish  boy — Isadore  Berchansky — set  upon 
by  himself  and  goaded  to  desperation  by  the  sex-lure  of  the  open  streets,  runs 
amuck,  and  in  his  madness  makes  a  little  neighbor  girl  his  victim.  The 
missing  girl,  the  finding  of  her  body,  the  man  hunt,  the  dawning  fear  of  the 
Berchansky  family  that  Isadore  might  have  done  this  thing,  their  pathetic 
efforts  to  deceive  themselves  and  others,  their  examination  in  the  courtroom — 
these  are  the  steps  by  which  the  play  rises  to  its  climax,  when  Isadore- — 
starved,  hiding,  hunted,  hated — slips  finally  out  and  away  through  the 
friendly  offices  of  an  open  gas  jet  and  an  arm's  length  of  rubber  tubing. 

That  is  the  play.  Without  an  extra  word  ioration— that  is,  not  to  the  extent  of  de- 
and  with  never  a  stepping  aside  from  the  forming  his  play.  He  is  tremendously  busy 
straight  course  of  stark  portrayal,  the  painting  the  thing  as  it  is.  And  how  help- 
author,  with  a  new  austerity  of  spirit,  in  less  one  is,  after  all.  What  is  it  about? 
a  rigid  economy  of  gesture,  sets  the  hid-  What  is  one's  own  part?  What  can  he  do? 
eous  thing  out  nakedly.  Is  it  a  reform  What  are  the  forces— sinister  and  bene- 
performance?  Not  at  all.  If  reforming  ficent— that  mix  themselves  so  inextricably 
measures  should  come  out  of  this  play,  in  each  one  of  us?  A  terrible  play — and 
they  will  come  by  virtue  of  the  fact  that  terrible  because  it  impels  one  to  look  into 
readers  must  get  together  for  their  own  his  own  depths  and  because  it  leads  him 
peace  of  mind  to  help  the  unfortunate.  to  realize  his  own  nothingness  in  the  hid- 
Dreiser  is  not  thinking  about  social  amel-  den  motives  of  the  grand  whole. 

Reviewed  by  Ralph  F.  Holmes  in  the  Detroit  Tribune. 

Theodore  Dreiser  has  let  himself  in  for  another  drubbing  by  the  publica 
tion,  through  Boni  &  Liveright,  of  a  four-act  play  entitled  "The  Hand  of  the 
Potter."  And  the  defenders  of  Mr.  Dreiser,  if  I  mistake  not,  are  going  to 
be  few  in  number  and  feeble  in  voice,  for  he  has  written  a  play  which  is  not 
only  unimaginable  on  the  stage  but  almost  impossible  to  read,  so  grim,  so 
hideous  and  so  true  it  is. 

It  is  One  thing  to  tell  the  story  of  a  girl  who  triumphs  over  her  surround 
ings  at  the  expense  of  what  the  world  likes  to  call  the  moral  self,  to  picture 
the  financial  rapacity  of  a  man  of  wealth,  the  amorous  adventures  of  a  man 
of  genius — these  things  are  not  only  true  but  they  are  typical.  But  it  is  quite 
another  to  go  down  into  the  dark  and  fearsome  depths  of  abnormal  psychol 
ogy  and  bring  forth  to  view  on  the  printed  page  the  tragedy  of  an  ill-born 
youth  who  commits  the  most  unspeakable  of  social  offenses,  the  attack  upon 
children. 

This  is  the  kind  of  horror  with  which  material  for  the  artist  is  going  to  be  hotly 

newspapers  willingly  harrow  the  hearts  of  denied,   and   by   many  who   would  resent 

eager  readers    whenever    the    opportunity  being  classed  as  conservative  critics, 

offers,    but   that    it    constitutes    legitimate  Any   review   which  a   commentator  at- 


tempts  to  offer  of  this  book  must  be  re 
garded  almost  as  a  warning,  for  I  think 
it  is  frankly  the  duty  of  the  reviewer,  in 
this  case,  to  strive  as  far  as  possible  to 
prevent  the  book  falling  into  the  hands  of 
anyone  unprepared  to  receive  it,  quite  as 
much  as  it  is  his  duty  to  urge  it  into  the 
hands  of  all  who  have  staunch  hearts  in 
their  contemplation  of  life,  and  that  high 
degree  of  optimism  which  does  not  flinch 
or  despair  at  the  naked  truth. 

Not  long  since  we  quoted  in  this  col 
umn  those  words  of  the  dying  Othello, 
which  might  be  taken  as  life's  admonition 
to  the  artist: 

Speak  of  me  as  I  am,  nothing  extenuate, 
Nor  set  down  aught  in  malice. 

And  it  is  by  this  text  which  the  apol 
ogist  for  Mr.  Dreiser  must  vindicate  his 
right  to  offer  the  world  such  a  drama  as 
"The  Hand  of  the  Potter." 

Until  it  can  be  proven  that  Mr.  Dreiser 
has  distorted  his  picture,  or  has  moved  his 
drama  to  illogical  denouement,  or  has  failed 
to  inform  his  subject  with  some  of  that 
elusive  quality  which  transforms  mere  facts 
into  truths  of  universal  significance,  the 
utmost  that  his  detractors  in  this  instance 
can  say  is  that  "The  Hand  of  the  Potter" 
is  too  terrible  to  read  or  witness. 

In  order  that  you  may  judge  fairly  for 
yourself  at  least  whether  you  care  to  at 
tempt  the  book,  let  me  tell  you  what  the 
dramatist  has  done. 

He  has,  in  the  first  place,  offered  us  a 
philosophical  starting  point  (which  was 
undoubtedly  his  own)  in  quoting  the  words 
of  Omar:  "What  did  the  Hand  then  of 
the  Potter  shake?"  Then  he  has  raised 
the  curtain  on  an  unforgettable  picture. 

It  is  the  lower  East  Side,  in  New  York, 
where  in  a  sweltering  tenement  live  the 
Berchanskys,  a  poor  thread  peddler,  his 
faded  wife  and  three  children,  a  son  and 
two  daughters.  There  is  a  third  daughter, 
who  is  well  married,  and  presently  there 
comes  into  the  scene  a  second  son,  who 
has  but  recently  been  paroled  from  prison, 


where  he  was  sentenced  because  of  an  at 
tack  upon  a  10  year  old  girl. 

He  is  afflicted  with  a  twitching  shoulder 
and  bears  other  unmistakable  evidences  of 
sexual  and  psychological  abnormality  that 
in  a  less  sentimental  and  more  intelligent 
community  would  long  since  have  placed 
him  under  restraint.  But  here  he  is  again 
"paroled"  into  a  world  that  offers  the  max 
imum  of  temptation  to  such  a  nature  as 
his,  where  the  frankly  revealatory  garb 
of  the  women,  harmless  and  healthful 
enough  for  the  normal,  at  the  same  time 
vexes  him  with  impulses  beyond  endur 
ance. 

The  inevitable  happens.  An  11  years 
old  girl  comes  into  the  room  where  this 
youth  has  been  left  alone;  she  moves  him 
to  a  frenzy,  and  the  sorrow-ridden  little 
family  return  from  a  breathing  spell  in 
the  park  to  find  only  the  evidences  of  the 
crime  that  fit  with  too  dreadful  accuracy 
into  the  discovery  of  the  child's  body  in 
a  field  a  few  hours  later. 

That  requires  two  acts,  and  there  fol 
low  two  more — the  grand  jury  room  and 
the  cheap  lodging  where,  some  weeks  later, 
the  hunted,  haunted  boy  summons  just 
enough  self-control  to  thrust  another  child 
out  of  his  room  and  then  puts  a  gas  tube 
in  his  mouth. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  sheer  work 
manship,  Mr.  Dreiser  has  done  this  beau 
tifully.  The  old  father's  indictment  of 
himself  on  the  witness  stand  as  having 
failed  of  his  patriarchial  duties,  the  fren 
zied  lying  of  the  mother,  the  tawdry  cheap 
ness  of  the  worldly  daughter,  the  last  mad 
agonies  of  the  boy — these  are  done  with 
the  same  masterful  hand  that  made  "The 
Girl  in  the  Coffin"  not  only  the  greatest 
one-act  play  written  by  an  American,  but 
one  of  the  greatest  American  dramas  of 
any  length. 

But  what  more  can  one  say  for  "The 
Hand  of  the  Potter?"  Nothing  I  fear- 
save  only  to  warn  those  who  are  too  quick 
to  attack  Mr.  Dreiser  to  pause  and  con 
sider  if,  after  all,  their  indictment  is  not 
of  the  dramatist,  but  of  life. 


Reviewed  by  Belford  Forrest  in  the  Knickerbocker  Press  (Albany). 

If  the  Coburns  screw  their  courage  to  the  sticking  point  and  do  actually 
produce  "The  Hand  of  the  Potter,"  there  will  be  one  grand  and  glorious 
shindy.  Just  at  present  they  are  busy  scooping  a  fortune  out  of  "The  Better 


'Ole."  In  the  meantime,  to  give  everybody  a  chance  to  tune  up  for  the  big 
noise  later,  Dreiser  has  printed  the  play.  And  sure  enough  the  fun  has  started. 
It  has  been  greeted  with  a  perfect  babel  of  alleluias  and  anathemas. 
George  Jean  Nathan,  in  the  October  number  of  the  Smart  Set,  gives  a  particu 
larly  rollicking  account  of  its  reception.  Arthur  Hopkins,  for  instance,  con 
siders  it  the  best  American  play  that  has  been  submitted  to  him  and  would 
certainly  have  produced  it  had  not  Dreiser  imposed  upon  him  so  many 
"bulls,  caveats  and  salvos."  On  the  other  hand,  Mencken,  Nathan's  partner 


in  crime  and  Dreiser's  man  at  arms  these 
many  years,  says  that  Hopkins  is  crazy,  and 
that  it  is  one  of  the  worst  American  plays 
he  has  read.  "It  has  given  birth,"  Nathan 
writes,  to  boisterous  palm  pounders,  tin- 
sheet  shakers  and  shillabers  on  the  right 
hand,  and  to  nose  wrinklers,  tongue  stick 
ers  and  loud  sneezers  on  the  left.  I  find 
myself  occupying  a  position  in  the  no  man's 
land  stretching  between  the  two  camps — 
but  rather  far  to  the  left."  Many  readers 
of  the  play  will  no  doubt  share  Nathan's 
uncertainty,  and  face  both  ways.  With 
characteristic  courage  Dreiser  has  tackled 
a  dreadful  theme.  Young  Isadore  Ber- 
chansky  is  a  bora  degenerate  and  he  com 
mits  a  fiendish  crime.  Dreiser  tells  his 
story  to  prove  that  the  boy  is  neither  a 
fiend  nor  a  criminal,  but  the  helpless  vic 
tim  of  heredity  and  environment.  The  first 
and  second  acts  in  the  Berchansky  home 
are  masterly.  We  find  it  difficult  to  be 
lieve  that  they  can  fail  to  be  effective  in 
the  highest  degree  upon  the  stage.  Partic 
ularly  the  awful  climax  to  the  first  act 


and  the  scene  at  the  close  of  the  second 
in  which  the  old  people  realize  that  the 
crime  has  been  committed  by  Isadore. 
And  Dreiser  has  surely  never  done  any 
thing  better  than  his  characterization  of 
the  Berchansky  family.  The  third  act,  in 
which  the  scene  shifts  to  the  courtroom, 
may  act  more  convincingly  than  it  reads. 
Isadore's  death  scene  in  the  fourth  act  is 
too  long  drawn  out.  But  it  is  utterly 
pathetic.  Moreover,  it  is  the  logical  con 
clusion  of  the  play.  The  debate  between 
the  newspaper  men  in  the  scene  that  fol 
lows  is  an  anti-climax  of  the  worst  descrip 
tion.  The  purpose  of  this  play  is  clear  as 
daylight  without  any  such  tub-thumping. 
The  fact  that  "The  Hand  of  the  Potter" 
is  Dreiser's  first  long  play  is  probably  re 
sponsible  for  the  over-emphasis  that  mars 
the  concluding  scenes.  There  is  so  much 
that  is  truly  great  in  the  whole  concep 
tion,  so  many  flashes  of  unmistakable  gen 
ius,  such  genuine  tragedy,  that  its  technical 
imperfections  are,  in  comparison,  trifles  light 
as  air. 


THE  HAND  OF  THE   POTTER 


//  yon  believe  that  the  merit  or  lack  of 
merit  of  a  work  is  to  be  readily  detected  by 
any  or  all,  examine  these  contrasting  reviews. 


Theodore  Dreiser  can  be  depended  upon  to 
send  forth  an  unusual  book.  All  his  works 
are  unusual.  The  morals  of  his  novels  have 
been  harshly  criticized,  but  he  who  proclaims 
them  weak  and  meaningless  is  yet  to  be  heard. 
His?  latest  production,  "The  Hand  of  the  Pot 
ter,"  will  be  hard  to  pillory  for  moral  rea 
sons.  It  is  a  tragedy  in  the  form  of  a  play, 
gi-im  and  gaunt,  without  an  unnecessary  word 
or  character.  The  character  around  which 
the  plot  revolves  is  the  degenerate  son  of  an 
East  Side  Jewish  family.  Here  is  stark  real 
ism  from  first  to  last,  and  presented  so  grip- 
pingly  that  one  docs  not  lay  down  the  book 
unfinished. — Times-Star,  Cincinnati. 


The  Hand  of  the  Potter,  by  Theodore  Drei 
ser,  a  tragedy  in  four  acts  (New  York,  Boni  & 
Livefight),  should  suffice,  by  its  incredibly 
inept  construction,  to  remove  the  last  doubt 
whether  the  author  is  capable  of  mastering 
any  existing  technique.  Upon  an  authentic 
background  of  East  Side  family  life  he  has 
presented  a  courageous  and  understanding  pic 
ture  of  a  certain  kind  of  erotic  pathology — 
and  then  has  squandered  his  materials  in  a 
sensational  plot  that  is  as  clumsy  as  melo 
drama  as  it  is  arbitrary  as  tragedy. — The  Dial, 
N.  Y. 


"If  Mr.  Dreiser  had  written  nothing  else 
this  would  establish  his  reputation  as  a  writer 
of  power." — Star,  Indianapolis. 


"It  is  weak  melodrama,  lacking  plot,  de 
void  of  structure,  without  feeling  and  imag 
ination  and  without  any  discernible  trace  of 
literary  or  dramatic  value." — Chronicle,  San 
Francisco. 


"Artistically  he  has  made  great  strides.  'The 
Girl  in  the  Coffin'  foreshadowed  a  care  for 
technique  which  'The  Hand  of  the  Potter1  has 
nearly  perfected.  It  is  an  artistic  accomplish 
ment,  in  addition  to  its  moral  sincerity." — 
News,  Detroit. 


"Why  is  'The  Hand  of  the  Potterf  The 
play  is  one  of  the  most  appallingly  repulsive 
plays  ever  written,  not  alone  for  its  subject, 
but  because  it  has  been  clumsily  and  awk 
wardly  treated.  The  author  not  only  reveals 
himself  as  a  violator  of  the  rules  of  good 
taste,  but  as  a  crude  worker  in  the  art  of 
dramatic  construction.  After  reading  it  one 
might  with  equal  disgust  and  indignation  ask, 
'Why  is  Theodore  Dreiser'?" — Journal,  Provi 
dence,  R.  I. 


"It  is  a  tragedy  of  New  York's  East  Side, 
badly  pictured,  horror  heaped  on  horror,  dis 
tress  on  distress,  a  chief  character,  that  of  a 
degenerate  and  partially  demented  young  man 
who  finally  kills  himself,  yet  the  whole,  withal, 
permeated  with  much  pathos  and  tenderness 
amid  squalor  and  depravity." — Dispatch,  Pitts 
burgh. 


"The  whole  thing  reads  like  a  collection  of 
extracts  from  penny  dreadfuls  and  official 
police  records.  Of  dramatic  structure  it  ex 
hibits  no  trace.  That  it  contains  bait  that 
might  be  attractive  to  one  sort  of  audience 
is  likely  enough,  but  nothing  in  it  is  worthy 
of  preservation  in  print." — Evening  Post,  New 
York. 


"It  is  a  powerful  plea  for  enlightened  treat 
ment  of  moral  defectives,  who  come  from  the 
hand  of  the  potter  unfit  and  unable  to  with 
stand  the  temptations  with  which  they  are 
surrounded." — Times,  Los  Angeles. 


"The  only  possible  result  of  this  play  is 
a  maudlin  sentimentality,  from  which  (and  ?  we 
speak  reverently)  may  heaven  deliver  us.'  — 
Orcgonian,  Portland,  Ore. 


"Those  who  hold  that  the  purpose  of  art 
is  merely  to  entertain,  will  conclude  there  is 
no  art  here;  but  those  who  believe  that  the 
purpose  of  art  is  to  uplift,  will  find  that  the 
story  qualifies  for  that  category." — Gazette 
Times,  Pittsburgh. 


"But  as  a  reading  play — ugh!  I  can't  imag 
ine  anyone  with  a  sense  of  art,  choosing  as  a 
subject  for  a  drama  a  raper  and  a  murderer 
of  little  girls.  Science  may  deal  witli^  per 
versions  of  sex,  but  surely  we  needn't  be 
asked  to  read  plays  about  them.  If  I  were 
a  censor  I  would  bar  'The  Hand  of  the  Pot 
ter'  from  circulation  and  turn  Mr.  Dreiser 
over  to  the  psychiatric  ward." — Tribune,  Chi 
cago. 


"His  attitude  is  always  that  of  the  kindly 
surgeon,  tender,  but  true  to  his  scalpel.  Nat 
urally,  his  methods  are  not  altogether  relished 
by  those  persons  who  wear  their  morals  on 
their  sleeves  and  who  think  that  the  proper 
course  with  evils  is  not  open  minded  discus 
sion,  but  festering  silence." — Evening  Wiscon 
sin,  Milwaukee. 


"The  author  treats  his  subject  ignobly.  He 
is  not  the  surgeon  applying  himself  to  the 
diseased  body  to  cut  away  the  faulty  tissue; 
he  is  not  the  priest,  come  to  soothe  the  soul. 
He  is  the  morbidly  curious  bystander,  re 
moving  the  cover  to  view  the  wounds.  The 
true  artist  does  not  work  so.  There  is  an 
effect — in  the  case  of  a  master — of  his  re 
moving  his  hat  reverently  when  he  stands  in 
the  presence  of  suffering.  Mr.  Dreiser  would 
seem  to  be  holding  a  magnifying  glass  in  one 
hand  and  a  note  book  in  the  other.  And  in 
the  end  there  is  the  effect  not  of  his  having 
given  pity  to  the  ailing,  but  of  having  brought 
an  unsavory  mess  to  view." — Republic,  St. 
Louis. 


"There    is    here    a    fidelity    to    nature    which      "The    work    is    good — we    do    not    deny    it. 

is    apparent    in    the    works    of    few    American  There  is  about  it  a  dark  and  sullen  excellence. 

writers." — Gazette-Times,  Pittsburgh.  What  we  question  is  the  necessity  of  it. 

And  without  a  necessity,  it  should  not  have 
been  written." — News,  Chicago. 


"It  is  exceedingly  fortunate  for  the  intelli 
gent  reader,  and  especially  for  the  American 
reader  whose  pride  is  atremble  lest  the  Polly- 
anna-Freckles  type  of  literature  come  to  be 
regarded  as  representative  of  the  American 
standard,  that  Mr.  Dreiser  is  imperturbably 
impervious  to  any  disapproval  aimed  at  mak 
ing  him  cease  to  reflect  life  as  he  sees  it. 
If  he  were  not,  he  would  never  have  had  the 
temerity  to  write  "The  Hand  of  the  Potter," 
and  American  literature  would  have  been  the 
poorer  by  what  is  certainly  one  of  the  strong 
est  plays  it  has  so  far  known." — B.  C.  S., 
New  York  American. 


"Is  anyone  going  to  admit  Dreiser's  right 
to  his  choice  of  material?  'The  Hand  of  the 
Potter'  is  a  study  of  one  of  the  most  revolt 
ing  types  of  mental  degeneracy  that  society 
has  to  meet.  Is  such  a  subject  material  for 
art?" — Neivs,  Detroit. 


"Here  is   as  strong   a  picture  as  Ibsen   ever  "This  play  is  classed   by  its   publishers  as  a 
painted.      It   is   literature.      It  is  one  of  those  tragedy.      It    is,    indeed,    a  ^  tragedy    that    any 
human     documents     which     will     interpret     for  writer    of   Theodore    Dreiser's   technical   attain- 
future    ages    the    horror    of    the    closing    years  ments   should   be   so  warped   in    his    outlook   as 
of  a  putrescent  civilization  that  fell  of  its  own  to  regard  the  theme  of  this  play  as  a  fit  sub- 
decomposing  stupidity." — World,   Oakland,  Cal-  ject  for  anything  except  a  medical  treatise." — 
ifornia.  The   Outlook,  New  York. 


"As  a  thesis  the  play  merits  the  closest  con 
sideration  for  its  concrete  suggestions  on  and 
deep  penetration  into  the  subject.  As  a  trag 
edy,  it  rises  to  the  greatest  heights  of  pathos 
and  sinks  into  abyssmal  sorrows.  There  are 
only  a  few  shortcomings  in  the  construction 
of  the  play,  which,  once  eliminated,  would  ma 
terially  strengthen  it." — East  Side  News,  New 
York. 


"Ardent,  and  often  virulent,  friends  of  his 
assert  that  his  bigness  lies  in  his  choice  of 
themes  and  it  is  these  which  make  him  worth 
reading.  Perhaps.  To  the  thoughtless,  who  in 
quire,  must  such  things  be  paraded?  Mr. 
Dreiser  reiterates  in  varying  manner  from 
time  to  time,  they  must!  One  will  grant  their 
broad  truth,  also  their  artistic  truth,  but  why 
make  fetishes  of  them?" — Transcript,  Boston. 


"We  cannot  hold  the  family  accountable  for 
his  lust  and  murder;  or  him — we  have  not  as 
yet  provided  the  precautionary  machinery  for 
eliminating  what  Dreiser  describes  with  so 
damning  realism— that's  all."— W.  P.  B.,  Post- 
Standard,  Syracuse. 


"Realism  has  its  place  in  the  nqvel  and  the 
drama,  but  there  are  limits  which  decency 
and  good  taste  set  up  to  guide  the  writer  and 
to  protect  the  public.  It  is  to  be  regretted 
that  Mr.  Dreiser  displays  a  fondness  for  the 
exploitation  of  the  seamy  side  of  human  in 
tercourse." — Times,  Trenton,  N.  J. 


AND  THEN  THESE   FROM   LETTERS 


MEDICAL  REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS 
206  Broadway 

New  York 

Mr.    Theodore   Dreiser,  December   28th,    1917. 

165  West  10th  Street, 
New  York  City. 

Dear  Mr.  Dreiser: 

"I  have  read  with  the  greatest  interest  and  care  The  Hand  of  the  Potter.  I  consider  it  a 
perfect  piece  of  work  artistically,  and  believe  it  will  accomplish  much  good  in  that  it  will  bring 
about  a  more  sympathetic  attitude,  not  only  toward  those  unfortunates  who  commit  crimes 
because  of  insanity,  but  for  any  other  reason. 

"I  am  writing  this  note  to  advise  you  that  I  am  perfectly  willing  and  eager  to  urge  the 
Medical  Review  of  Reviews  and  its  Sociological  Fund  to  co-operate  with  Mr.  Hopkins  in  put 
ting  this  play  before  the  American  people  and  to  have  it  produced  under  their  joint  auspices. 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 

"FREDERIC  H.  ROBINSON." 


"I  am  a  Jew  and  this  is  my  favorite  of  all  Jewish  plays." — Samuel  Chugerman. 

"It  is  a  great  play.     I  cannot  get  it  out  of  my  mind." — Arthur  Hopkins. 

"The  play  is  very  strong.     I  am  sorry  it  offers  me  no  suitable  roll." — Arnold  Daly. 


"We  consider  this  a   most  important  play  and   will   arrange   for   its  production." — The   Co- 
burns. 


"Your  latest  play    (The   Hand   of   the   Potter)    is   wonderful   and   deserves  to   live    forever. 
There  was  nothing  wrong  with  the  hand  of  the  Potter  when  he  made  you." — D.  M.  S. 


"It  is  a  very  interesting,  tense  and  powerful  analytical  study  of  life  in  the  raw,  and  I 
would  like  to  see  it  played  on  the  New  York  stage.  It  would,  no  doubt,  create  more  discus 
sion  than  'John  Ferguson'." — H.  W.  Gregg. 


4  It  is  with  felicity  and  admiration  that  I  call  you  playwright.  You  have  earned  that  title 
fully  and  enduringly  with  The  Hand  of  the  Potter.  I  can  see  now  why  it  abashed  the  critics 
and  horrified  the  Comstockians,  poor  feeble  insects  who  become  all  flustered  at  the  least  breath 
of  life.  They  want  their  tragedies  always  saccharinized  and  dressed  in  pretty  gowns  of  illusion, 
with  a  ribbon  of  shallow  optimism  gracing  the  middle.  But,  you,  true  surgeon  that  you  are, 
have  done  your  job  as  the  case  demanded,  and  I,  for  one,  am  glad  you  used  so  little  of  the 
anaesthetic.  Is  that  why  most  of  the  reading  public  are  screaming  with  pain?  — Symon  Gould. 


"I  believe  I  told  you  that  most  of  my  business  consists  of  rare  and  out  of  print  books,  yet 
I  have  sold  twenty  of  the  regular  copies  of  'The  Hand  of  the  Potter,'  and  I  have  ordered  two 
of  the  autographed  edition.  Almost  all  the  purchasers  have  told  me  how  well  they  enjoyed  the 
book  and  have  admired  the  wonderful  craftsmanship.  One  lawyer  in  particular  told  me  that 
the  trial  scene  was  absolutely  perfect  in  every  detail.  Personally,  I  think  the  shoulder  jerking 
infinitely  better  than  any  spoken  lines.  The  Jewish  setting  was  admirably  chosen,  and  except 
for  one  or  two  slight  errors  in  Jewish  expression,  which  super-Jewish  critics  have  brought  to 
my  attention,  I  think  the  play  is  flawless." — Alfred  H.  Goldsmith. 

"I  read  The  Hand  of  the  Potter  last  night.  It  is  a  very  powerful  play — dramatically  con 
structed.  I  don't  like  the  title.  It  suggests  an  extended,  anthropomorphic  hand.  Isadora  was 
just  a  plant  wrongly  crossed,  bitten  by  a  green  worm  or  something  else  happened  to  him  in 
the  pollination.  You  might  have  found  in  'De  Vires'  a  title  better  indicating  the  inherent, 
inevitable  working  of  cell  and  sap.  The  play  is  of  the  first  water." — Edgar  Lee  Masters. 

"I  think  I  am  fairly  familiar  with  the  modern  drama  of  these  United  States,  and  I  know 
of  no  play  by  an  American  which  achieves  the  greatness  approached  by  this  tragedy  of  yours. 
Its  simple  craftsmanship,  the  huge  terror  of  its  honest  situations,  the  dialogue  denuded  of  all 
nonessentials,  its  unforgettable  substance-y-all  these  mark  The  Hand  of  the  Potter  as  perhaps 
the  most  signal  achievement  in  the  American  drama." — Arnold  M.  Rosenthal. 

"Last  night  I  completed  The  Hand  of  the  Potter,  and  as  an  editor,  this  is  what  I  thought: 
'Why  do  newspapers  employ  pea  brained  critics  to  essay  judgment  of  a  work  like  this  and  so 
fill  their  columns  with  slush?'  Are  there  no  critics  on  our  major  newspapers  even  who  know 
anything  at  all?  I  read  the  play  and  then  the  criticisms  and  judge  that  newspapers  deal  only 
with  moralic  trash  fit  only  for  mass  consumption.  If  this  play  cannot  be  staged,  it  proves  but 
one  thing — and  one  thing  only — that  the  mass  of  the  people  do  not  care  to  meet  up  with  life 
as  it  is  lived,  especially  by  the  very  poor.  If  it  were  about  kings  and  queens  it  might  be  dif 
ferent." — Charles  E.  Yost. 

"Someone  with  the  necessary  taste  and  force  may  or  at  least  should  be  found  to  produce 
The  Hand  of  the  Potter.  It  seems  pitiful  and  paltry  that  Americans  of  the  necessary  mentality 
to  enjoy  so  great  a  tragedy,  drawn  from  their  own  life  and  their  great  metropolis,  should  not 
have  a  chance  to  see  it.  The  very  haunting  figure  of  the  old  father,  the  swiftness  of  the 
language  and  action — the  kind  of  stark  splendor  that  envelops  the  play  would  hold  and  fas 
cinate  an  audience,  veiling  its  terror.  I  for  one  congratulate  myself  on  my  luck  in  being  able 
to  read  it  in  book  form." — D.  D.  H. 


"I  say  again,  as  I  did  when  I  first  read  the  manuscript,  that  the  play  is  a  great  piece  of 
dramatic  writing,  a  stirring  piece  of  dramatic  art.  Every  character  is  well  rounded — each  a  solid 
creation — all  live  out  their  destinies  in  accordance  with  their  instincts  and  their  restraints.  I 
admire  it  greatly.  It  is  not  too  much  to  Bay  I  think  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  plays  that  has 
appeared  in  our  day  anywhere." — M.  S.  Y. 


"I  see  no  good  reason  why  The  Hand  of  the  Potter  should  not  be  produced.  In  fact. 
I  hold  the  firm  belief  that  sooner  or  later  someone  is  going  to  sense  the  dramatic  possibilities 
of  this  stupendous  creation  and  present  the  play  to  the  public.  Before  the  war  there  might 
have  been  this  excuse,  namely,  the  fear  of  shocking  the  mass.  After  the  horror  of  the  world 
war,  what  validity  can  that  have?" — F.  B. 

"The  Nation,  in  reviewing  your,  The  Hand  of  the  Potter,  which  review  caused  me  to  read 
the  play,  speaks  of  Isadore  as  'important.'  Certainly  Isadore  is  important — a  large  and  grave 
problem.  As  is  well  within  your  right,  you  leave  the  problem  unsolved,  and  perhaps  there 
is  no  solution.  As  a  physician,  I  wish  there  were.  But  at  least  you  ring  down  the  curtain  on 
a  magnificent  climax.  The  father's  cry  at  the  very  end,  'Why  pull  at  the  walls  of  my  house?. 
They  are  already  down,'  will,  I  believe,  join  the  classics — that  heaven  of  those  super-creations 
of  the  writers  of  the  world." — Stephen  B.  Hylbourn. 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


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